


Time to Rock n Roll Samurai

by TrashAYfanfiction



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Band Fic, Depression, Diary/Journal, Flashbacks, Gay Male Character, M/M, Memories, Non-Linear Narrative, Orgy, Pining, Prequel, Punk Rock, Rock and Roll, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashAYfanfiction/pseuds/TrashAYfanfiction
Summary: Kerry during his time in Samurai. Just another day of life in the band.Kerry should have kept a journal. He didn't know how different things would be in the future.
Relationships: Kerry Eurodyne/Johnny Silverhand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Time to Rock n Roll Samurai

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original story I had in the archive from a while back, but I’ve Re-skinned it to fit Kerry Eurodyne and cyberpunk 2077 because i think it fits relatively well. I know almost no cyberpunk lore, so forgive that. Sad slutty rockerboys is my aesthetic.

…………………. 

“You’re attractive,” He tells me.

They don’t want to fuck me because I’m attractive, they want to fuck me because I’m famous. They want to know me because I might help them get ahead in their empty life. Jokes on them. I don’t know what I’m doing here either. I shag him anyways. He feels special.

I’m the guitarist of a rockband. It’s what I do.

I’m not attractive. I just have a lot of swagger. I’m not rich but they think I am. Maybe I’ll be one day, live in a mansion in the hills and have servants…. It’d be better than eating at shitty diners and sharing cramped apartments.

That night I get high on cocaine and let six guys fuck me. All groupies, fans. I’m too blitzed out to remember most of it. They might as well be escorts, they do whatever I say. Men are so much easier to please. Nobody fakes an orgasm, nobody gets attached, it’s just fucking.

I tried being one of those trendy bisexuals….. Just to see how it played out. I don’t think I was ever attracted to women.

I tried with the girls. groupies, but Johnny didn’t like it. Johnny’s our frontman. He has a different bitch every night. I think he’s worried about me. I was a bit too straight edge to be a frontman. I wasn’t really into crazy partying, it’s an illusion to sell. It’s a job. It was all an act, at least it used to be.. The lines between fantasy and reality was blurry now.

Partying isn’t a job for me. It’s an escape.

We’re still C list, but we’ve been on a few tours. Usually the opener band for a bigger name, but have been a combined headline once with another forgettable name. Our small shows are always sold out though. Packed little clubs filled with kids of the street, screaming along to our lyrics, dancing that could be fighting.

I try to remember those times. I think the only time I’m truly happy is when I’m on stage. 

I think Johnny’s only happy when he’s writing. I don’t know. I don’t like writing. When I write it’s to let out the pain. I’d prefer to just keep it bottled up, but it always overflows.

What I hate most is traveling.

“Goddamnit Denny! I hate your fucking drumkit!!” It takes up half the space in the van, alongside the amps and PA’s. I’m cramped into a corner. Johnny’s driving, cig in one hand, beer in another. He’s more sober than all of us, except for Nancy who was asleep in the passenger seat.

“IYou’re the one who added synthesizers to one track.” Denny sasses back, “It’s your fuckin fault we have less room than ever,”

A band was a family. Families go along because they had to.

Maybe we needed to ditch those fucking synths. 

I never knew what was going to be a hit. I just wrote whatever. Johnny found that brilliant.

…..

“It doesn’t have any lyrics, what does it mean?”

He shrugged, “It means what you want it to. You can figure it out.”

Johnny wrote the lyrics for our first song. Something uplifting for the disjointed sound I’d made. Johnny wrote most of our lyrics, despite never singing them. He had no ambition to sing, his voice sounded like a dying animal. Rage and pain, but not in a way that grabbed your heart and ripped it out of your chest. Though his reasoning was that he’d be ‘too nervous’ ‘forget what to say’, ‘ I’m good until I sing.’ Where mine was that I had nothing, I had emotion, but couldn’t hold a note to save my life. Only in my fingers.

….

“Why don’t you make any political statements?” The interviewer asked me.

“I thought my music was a political statement.” I had a wonderful habit of putting my foot in my mouth during these things. But so did Henry, which is why we try to make him shut up. Nobody pays attention to the bassist, and nobody wants to hear him make a fool of himself. Out of all the band I was probably the most mellow. It’s not that I didn’t believe in our cause, but living on the street was fucking tough, and I wasn’t going to burn more bridges than I needed to.

Johnny cut in and rescued me.

“Look at how I live.. I lead by example,” Goddamnit Johnny, sounding like a cult leader again.

“Well, me too,” Empty, empathetic example.

“We don’t really fall anywhere on the current political spectrum,” Henry piped in. “We need a revolution!” Me, Denny, and Nancy held back a groan. ‘Oh great, you make us sound wishy-washy now,” and such. 

Depending on the day I liked interviews actually. They gave questions I had answers for, unlike the rest of my existence. Yes, sometimes the press were total cuntbags, read into our gestures too much, or I was too visibly hungover on camera, but overall any attention was good attention for Samurai.

The only bad press was the time Henry accidentally fucked an underage girl. We didn’t know. She had a fake ID. She looked old enough. Acted the same as any other desperate girl.

That was a scandal when her parent’s got involved. Apparently he took her virginity, which was a hot concept at the time but was a scandal when her parent’s got involved. That courtcase nearly bankrupted us.

It was back to sleeping on or manager’s couch for a few months. Stephanie was a good woman though. Hardboiled and angry, but a good woman. Probably needed to be to survive in industry and continuously wrangle 3-5 unruly artists half her age. We’d had a few additions and drops to our lineup. This has always been kinda Nancy’s band, but she ran it like a business. Henry was the second addition despite him being a simplistic moron. He had the energy and just wanted everyone to have a good time. Like a large puppy really. Denny was the real talent. She had been a main vocal before realizing how hard it was to front a band from backstage at the drums. They’d ran through several guitarists. Me and Johnny joined at about the same time actually. I think they were planning on cutting one of us. 

I hoped they’d scrap his mediocre guitar playing in favor of me. But the bastard has charisma. I found myself actually enjoying his company, not just enjoying the glimpses of his red briefs while he changed in the back of the van.

Nancy knew me from highschool on the few days I was there. I was always jealous of her. She was smart and musical and likable. She knew I was around. Most people knew me being around, I didn’t necessarily fuck things up but I was the weird kid. I’d rather be any place but school. She was a surface level friend, flitting between social groups. I think she gave me the gig because he heard I was going through a rough time.

I was always going through a rough time.

Why you may ask? I don’t know. I really wish I did. Sometimes the void just comes after you, ya know? You feel the reach of nothingness and you’re terrified? I panic thinking about it. I become so overwhelmed with anxiety of thing I should do, know I should be doing, or know I should have already done had I just not hated myself this much.

I guess that’s what I loved about stage. I could become the messenger to the gods, hide behind my screaming machine, and pretend to have purpose for a set before the darkness loomed closer.

I didn’t know how to get us popular. It wasn’t my forte. I just wrote music. I pretended to be having a good time, or I invited the audience into my despair. I wish I had lyrics for all of my pieces, but Johnny always found something. Or Nancy. Johnny and Nancy never let me down. Whatever they came up with for lyrics usually resounded with my soul. If I could write, It would be like Nancy. Johnny didn’t write bad songs, but often they weren’t what I had imagined for my pieces.

To have my sorrows turned into a love ballad. Or my rage a sound to triumph. It was interesting. Perhaps I wasn’t as straightforward as I thought.

Eventually I shared my own writing. 

Johnny never told me they were any good.

I had a crush on Johnny, something he was aware of but didn’t return, smiling sweetly at me behind his dark hair. I didn’t ask. I knew he was straight.

I think he felt I just needed attention. I did. I needed to be loved or I would die. But I felt just as constrained in-love as I did alone. 

I was a wandering traveler. Nobody I met wanted to come on the road with me. It felt wrong to uproot them from their life and have them rely on me and my meager earnings.

Nobody makes any fucking money on tour anyways. I don't think anybody ever has.

At least I didn’t have a drug problem eating my money. I could stop anytime I wanted and most of it came free. That was the truth. I’m a reliable narrator. Sometimes I like to feel my pain and sorrows, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I party alone and sometimes I party with help.

I have a sex addiction.

My first time trying cocaine was with a record exec I thought might sign us. I offered the man a fuck in exchange for listening to our demo, he complied, I sucked him off. I went back in a few days, I did a line and he fucked me over his desk while our music played.

Cocaine had always been too rich for my part of town.

That deal fell through because Johnny and Nancy didn’t want it. I was pissed. I stick my neck out, sell my ass to get us somewhere, and they don’t even want it? I could have strangled Johnny that night. 

And that brings us back to the beginning with the six male hookers fucking me. You see, I should clarify that all four of us share a hotel room. It’s not usually going to happen in a hotel room. Though it usually happens backstage, or is a quickie in a closet or in the van when everybody else is out. If you fuck in the room nobody else has slept in, the rest of the band gets pissy.

But I’ve done enough drugs that I don’t care.

Ok, I admit maybe I have a minor drug problem.

Actually, I have an empathy problem enabled by drugs. That’s probably the crux of my issue, but I’m not ready to deal with that yet. Denny has talked to me about this, but as my manager she’s not my therapist. I told her to go fuck herself and she poured her beer on me.

Henry tried to console me and I told him to fuck off too.

And now I’m here.

The room was blurry and body hurt, but it felt good. My ass was getting pounded and a cute latino boy was on my cock. His sinewey legs wrapping around me and the man behind me. Another mouth was kissing my ear, my mouth, and the cock in my mouth. An orgy of mouths all centered around me.

The rest of the band was still at the bar, setting up for tonights show. I should be there but I had a ‘headache.’

Whatever. As long as I rolled up in time I’d be fine. I didn’t give a fuck about soundcheck. The show wouldn’t go on without the vocalist. I’m warming up my throat.

I feel guilty,

_ ‘You should be out there, you are supposed to be gaining a following.’ I’m meeting the ‘fans’. I answer my own question. _

Go od thing I didn’t last long. I came shuddering into the cute latino boy, clutching him to my body, emptying my balls. He mewled and wriggled. The man above me came on my face. Spurts of thick stinking seed. The man behind me finished across my back. I swore, jumping up wiping the sticky substance with a discarded shirt. I had no intention of looking like i’d fucked my brains out.

Haughty I pulled my pants back on. Well, Johnny’s pants. .I liked this pair, they were khaki green with faux military patches. He played up the ex-veteran aesthetic, despite some fighting him for being a deserter. 

  
  
  
  


I ushered the rentboys out, paying the meager amount I had in my pocket and throwing them what tickets I had on me. Yeah, if they were fans they were fucking me to get those. Doubted they would come see, but a souvenir to say they’d fucked a Rockstar.

Rockstar. I laughed. Yeah right. If only. Im a wannabe rockstar. 

I washed up and got ready for the show. I spent too much time teasing my dark hair, but raccoon eyeliner went on like second nature at this point. Leather flares hugged my legs. I went shirtless, showing off my newly forming love marks. Johnny would cringe. I only had hickey on the back of my neck from male lovers.

The venue was small, only holding about three hundred. We rocked the house. I felt accomplished for a bit.

That’s the thing about performing, you’re always chasing that new high.

I’d had enough of these songs I wanted to play something new. Several songs I just HATED but they did well with the crowd. 

I hope we never get big enough that we’re one of those bands who tour and only play their classics. Playing the same songs for thirty or fourty years straight would drive me bonkers.

I was nearly old enough to join the 27 club. I wondered if I’d be there by then. Bullet through my own brain. Or OD.

Probably not. I’m dramatic and it’s more romantic than anything else. I cut myself once, but drugs were more fun. I just wanted something to numb the pain, but knew I was too much of a pussy to do anything permanently about it.

Johnny, I guess you never knew. Life on the road changed people.

I didn’t love me. I thought maybe life on the road would change that. Maybe if enough people loved me, I’d believe it to be true, or have value or something….. something. I don’t know. I know popularity and self worth are not linked. I thought maybe if you loved me, Johnny, I kept holding out hope.

You see, I knew all of these things on paper. I am mentally stable on paper. I know what is and is not real, but that doesn’t keep me from feeling these things.

That might be what makes me write such ‘interesting’ music. I am too scared to ask about Johnny’s demons. 

He told me once, on one of the first nights we met, when i wasn’t sure if I liked him or hated him: I guess I’m still not sure where I stand on that….anyways. He was telling me about the war. About losing his arm in an explosion, about the flesh tearing off and bones sliding out. I puked on his shoes.

I wish I was like Henry sometimest; dumb and chipper. Though I knew it took him a lot of energy to keep up that façade. He was like that most of the time, it seemed genuine, to me anyways.. Even if if it was an act, it required energy. Henry fed his energy off of people. He lived to rejuvenate them.

There is nothing worse than getting booed off stage. …and that had happened sometimes. When we, the opener band, were so distinctly different than the headliner.

“Get out of here faggots!!” dodging beer cans. I mean, sometimes I felt that about us too. We were hacks. Johnny and Denny always threw the beer cans right back. One time Denny spat on a guys face…..

Though I suppose every artist feels like a hack. We were barely making any money. Our personal lives were in shambles. Whatever made no difference.

Stephanie suggested we go to the animal shelters when we had spare time. Sit in the cat room, pet some of the dogs. Something.

I agreed to an extent. 

I wondered if there was ever big enough. If there was ever enough in life for anyone.

I definitely just had six groupie hooker sluts just because I can. I didn’t have seven, cuz I can’t afford that.

Exchanging time for money. Life for money. Everything was money and then the money was gone. And If we didn’t have money, there would be some other kind of currency. Everything was depressing.

I think I found Johnny attractive one night. He is conventionally attractive; he needed to be, his guitar skill was only the upper end of moderate. 

He smiled at me, telling me I was ‘sweet’ but that he didn’t want to mess up the band. The worst thing we can do is date. By this point I knew dating wasn’t his style. I wasn’t asking for a date, I was asking for a fuck. 

“The dynamic we have going right now works” He told me. If we date and breakup we’re probably losing one of us.

I argued my point again. It wasn’t dating, it was just getting laid. I was horny and needed it now.

I think I’ve started using number of hookups as currency. But If I wasn’t using hookups, I’d be using something else: number of hits, popularity. Money. It all came full circle.

I wasn’t deviant. I was normal. Just like everyone else. Chasing the same nothingness.

Maybe nothingness is what keeps you moving forward. Run away from the void until you can’t anymore, if you let it consume you, you die. I wonder if it’s possible to come back from the void.

Rock bottom needs to be ‘the void’. I wonder if it feels triumphant to climb out of the void.

I don’t want to hit rock bottom to find out. I’ll settle for being average level of depressed. I’ll write songs about it. Maybe eventually someone will hear it and I’ll make money. 

Somebody else will find a different meaning to it.

  
  



End file.
